Castles Falling
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: A girl, a bookshop, a book, a war, and a boy who never came back.
1. Chapter 1

**I**

The sun burns through the window of his bedroom like a glorious reprimand, throwing light around the room as though it is angry words being hurled through the air by irate parents. Cedric Diggory sits at his desk, quill in hand, trying desperately to think of something coherent to write for his History of Magic essay. He knows he has to do it, but with the textbooks spread in front of him and the remembrance of Professor Binns' monotone droning in the back of his head, his willpower – already wobbling – crumbles.

He can do it later. Really. It won't kill him.

Sighing, he shuts the textbooks and stacks them in a neat pile on the corner of his desk, pulling his list of summer work closer. He's already finished everything for Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Potions, Charms will wait and Muggle Studies…

_Merlin's pants. _

Muggle Studies. He really hasn't planned this well, has he? What with the excitement of the Quidditch World Cup and the holiday to his grandparents in the South of France, homework hasn't exactly been at the forefront of his mind. He looks down again at the note at the bottom of his list, scrawled in ink that feebly switches from one colour to another.

_Muggle Studies – read a Muggle book to prepare for the first unit on Muggle literature._

He stands, stretching. Where on earth is he going to find a Muggle book? It's not like he _knows _any Muggles, being a pure-blood himself, and it's not like his parents will have any of their literature hanging around on the bookshelves downstairs that groan with magical books on getting rid of pests and biographies of Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge.

His eyes light on his broomstick leaning against the wall by a window like an idle student waiting for a lesson to begin. He decides he'll ask his parents later. He wants to feel the fresh, clean air on his face as he whizzes higher than the trees, he wants to feel the warmth of the sun beating down on his bare head. He grabs the broomstick.

Quidditch always needs practise.

* * *

"What do you want a Muggle book for?" Amos lowers the Daily Prophet, his eyebrows furrowing like small, hairy caterpillars.

"Homework." Cedric flops down into the armchair opposite the fireplace, which sniffily reminds him to plump up the cushions when he eventually gets up. "It's part of a project for Muggle Studies."

"Oh. Right."

"There's a Muggle bookshop in the village," his mother offers, popping her head around the door from the kitchen. "You could go tomorrow morning."

"Okay," Cedric says, leaning back and putting his feet up on the coffee table that gleams a proud mahogany-gold from his mother's endless polishing spells. They lapse into silence for a while, the rustle of Amos' newspaper and the gentle bubble of dinner cooking the only sounds. He thinks about Quidditch tactics for the upcoming season, plans and lines forming themselves behind his eyes.

This year, Hufflepuff are going to win.

* * *

Late the next morning when both his mother and father are out at work, he drags himself down to Ottery St Catchpole – the village five miles away from his family's manor house that is nestled amongst the hills and trees of a local wood that apparently has a reputation for being haunted. It takes a good two hours to walk there across rolling emerald hills, crossing the river that cuts like a brown rope across the countryside, twisting and turning, laden with the silver bodies of fish.

The village itself is ancient, leaning in on itself like a decrepit old man, moss caressing the sides of the houses with soft green fingers and cracks spreading in a web across the faded tarmac. A few people are out and about – a woman unloading bags of something from her car, a man sitting on a bench with a newspaper – and he wanders aimlessly for a bit, trying to recall the directions his mother left lying on the kitchen table for him before she left for the Ministry.

Eventually, he finds the bookshop, buried in the back of a tiny alley that he almost walks right past. A rusting sign swings forlornly in the whispering breeze – _Avalon Books_, it reads, with a fading picture of a green island surrounded by silver-blue waves. It doesn't look like much, he decides, but since he can't Apparate yet, this is his only chance.

He pushes aside the door that screeches like it is being murdered and ducks inside, his head brushing against wind-chimes that tinkle gently. He stops, blinks, and looks around, barely believing the sight that greets his eyes. Books everywhere, stacked up like the battlements of the Hogwarts Castle, towers of them leaning against old, dusty shelves that are laden with even more books, tattered old ones and shining new ones all mixed in together. The smell of old paper almost chokes him. This isn't what a bookshop should be like, a bookshop should be neat, tidy, everything with its own place, books in smart jackets and smiling assistants ready to help you with the list in your hands.

"Hello?" A voice says, and he starts, turns. A girl has appeared from a door in the back, a Muggle girl, her long hair hanging nonchalantly down her back, her ears loaded down with silver and coloured earrings. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a book."

"Obviously." The sarcasm in her voice makes him feel like a complete moron. Why couldn't he have just asked one of his Muggle-born friends for help? She steps closer, blue eyes glinting in the light that filters through the dirty windowpanes. "What sort of book?"

He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. A book."

"What do you need it for?"

"A school project. I've been told to read something."

"Anything in particular?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well," she huffs. "Would you like something classic, or something more modern?"

"Uh, modern, I suppose."

"Hmm." She regards him for a second, thoughtfully. "Wait here."

She disappears into the maze of shelves in a flick of her chestnut-coloured hair and a clatter of bangles. He stands in the middle of the shop awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feeling the small, strange shapes of the Muggle money from his parents' emergency stash hard against his fingertips. The moments tick by, endless.

Finally, she reappears, a book held in her hand. "Found it," she says. "Here you go."

As their fingers brush, a tingling warmth makes itself known in his hand, threading its way up his arm. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore it, looks down at the front cover. It's a picture of a man, hunched up with his head buried in his knees. As still as a dead thing, unlike the front covers of wizarding books which spark and move with life. _Birdsong, _the title proclaims.

"It's new," the girl says, offhand. "Came out a year ago. It's about World War One."

He nods as if he understands. They don't do Muggle History until after Christmas this year.

"I'll take it."

"Three pounds, please."

He rummages in his pocket, pulling out a handful of change and picking out three 'pound' coins and giving them to her. She dumps them on the counter, and he turns to go.

"You'll have to come back and tell me what you thought about it," she calls as he opens the door.

He looks over his shoulder at her. A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

"Okay," he says, before he can change his mind.

She nods, and then he steps out, back into the cobbled alleyway with the book in his hands, wondering if all Muggle girls stare at you like they can look deep into your soul, like they can read your secrets as though they are reflected in a mirror somewhere in your face.

He shakes his head to clear it, and begins the long walk home.

* * *

His father comes in late that afternoon when Cedric is still sitting on the armchair with the book open on his lap, the pages spread wide like the wings of a bird in full flight. A mug of coffee lies abandoned on the table.

"So you found one, then?" Amos asks, sitting down opposite his son.

"Yeah," Cedric murmurs absently, turning a page. He'd never realised books could be this engrossing, that they could make you forget about your own life, that they could draw you into a world where all you cared about was the characters whose lives were being acted out before your very eyes.

"What's it about?"

Cedric looks up, absently. "A war."

"Those goblins again?"

"No, Dad. A Muggle war."

"Is it good?"

"Very."

Amos shakes his head as Cedric goes back to poring over the book, the print marching across it like an army of words, spears and swords at the ready to take over the unwary reader's mind. "Right then. Your mother will be back soon."

"Yes, I know."

Amos leans over to ruffle his son's hair. "You want me to go away, don't you?"

"That would be greatly appreciated, yes."

"Fine. I'll see you at dinner."

"Cool." Cedric turns another page. "See you later."

* * *

It only takes three days to finish the book, and when he snaps it shut for the last time, he can barely think. Stories, words, sentences – they're not meant to affect him so, they're not meant to worm their way between his ribs and stab at his heart until it bleeds. They're supposed to be removed from emotion, a cautionary tale, something to be learned from like the fairytales his mother used to tell him when he was small.

He stares at the book lying innocently on his bedside table. The war it describes – how terrible it must have been for the poor soldiers who lived through it and died on the bullets that rattled through the air. At war for _four years. _He knows that his parents lived through the First Wizarding War, but that was clean cut, good versus the evil ambitions of the darkest of wizards ever to draw breath, but this Muggle war – it seems so pointless! Men died for no reason other than to claim inches of land, people killed each other in horrific ways for nothing more than to beat the other side.

He can't believe that he never knew about it, that wizards don't know about it, this awful history that the Muggles carry with them like lead weights. He leans back against his headboard, staring into space. All this time, and he never knew…he shakes his head. He has to get answers to the questions that have burrowed into his brain and dance wildly behind his eyes.

He has to know.

* * *

"How can you never have heard of the First World War?" she asks disbelievingly, her legs kicking the air from her perch on top of the counter. Her black-lined blue eyes burn into his. "It was the eighty-year anniversary at the end of July."

"I just haven't," he says. "Are there any more books about it?"

She fiddles with the flowers that are laced into her hair, their petals of purple, yellow and white falling onto the shoulders of her white t-shirt. "Plenty," she shrugs. "Do you want me to help you find them?"

"Yes, please," he says. She hops down off the counter.

"Do you want fact books or fiction?"

"Either," he says, following her through labyrinth of shelves. She stops in front of one at the very back of the shop in front a carved bookshelf that brushes the ceiling. Paper poppies are stuck into every book. She pulls out two slim books, and hands them to him. "That one's technically a children's book, but it's very good."

"Okay."

"And then there are loads of fact ones. Have a look, and take as many as you like."

He nods, looking at the titles that are crammed haphazardly together, wonky, lopsided, old and new. She pauses by his elbow, so close in the tiny space, penned in by walls and shelves. He tries to keep from accidently touching her, tries to keep the heat from burning in his cheeks. "If you want, I can get my granddad to see if he can find his father's letters from the war. They're up in the attic somewhere."

"That's very generous of you," he says, surprised. She looks away.

"It's no problem."

"Isolde!" A creaky voice echoes from near the door, and the girl, Isolde, rolls her eyes.

"I'm coming, Granddad."

She flits away down the aisles, and he is left, staring at the shelves of books, trying to make sense of his thoughts. How can he be so affected by someone he has met _twice? _Sure, he's gone out with girls at school, but they never steal his breath the way Isolde does, they never talk as if they know more about the world than he does, they never look at him like he's _not _Cedric Diggory, the smart, popular, handsome one…

He bites down on his feelings, and picks a few books at random from the shelf. These should keep him going for a while.

* * *

He begins to spend more and more time at the bookshop, browsing amongst the stacks and shelves as Isolde does accounts at the counter, and her grandfather snoozes in the rocking chair by the door with a fat, tortoiseshell cat purring on his lap. They talk about the books he buys, she makes recommendations, and eventually, they start to go for walks together, ambling along the pavements and out into the fields that are studded with wildflowers poking their faces above the coarse golden-green grass, sitting in the shade of walls, and just _being._

But then September is bearing down on them like a gleaming train roaring down the tracks, and it's two days before he's due back at school when she meets him at the door, gold dust sparkling around her eyes, barefoot and loaded with jewellery. Her fringe flops in her thin, freckled face.

"Walk?" she says.

"Okay."

They go to their field on the edge of the village and sit down by the stream that tinkles across the round, grey pebbles, catching the light as it falls gracefully from the sky. She looks pensive.

"I'm going back to school soon," he murmurs pensively, watching the way she fiddles with the beads around her wrists.

"Same. AS-Levels. Oh joy."

"What subjects are you doing?"

"English Literature, History, Art and Psychology. What are you doing for yours?"

"We don't do them."

"I thought they were compulsory."

"Not at my school." He can't tell her about magic that runs in his blood, he can't tell her that he's a wizard. It would be breaking laws, and he knows he's not prepared to do that, not even for her. "I have internal exams."

"Ah."

"Where's your school again?"

"Honiton. Is yours close? We could meet up in the evenings, maybe."

"Mine's in Scotland."

"Well, that scuppers that idea."

"We can write to each other."

"I suppose so." She turns to look at him, and to his bewilderment, tears glisten at the corners of her eyes like rain falling from a cloudless sky.

"Hey, don't cry. It's not the end of the world. I'm home at Christmas, and Easter too, usually." He reaches out to touch her cheek, but she swats his hand away as though it is an irritating fly.

"I'm not crying."

"Suit yourself."

They sit for a long while, watching as the sun dies in a blaze of gold and orange splendour over the horizon, as night swoops elegantly down across the world, wrapping it in her soft, velveteen cloak.

"We'd better be getting back," she says, eventually.

He stands silently, helps her up, and they walk back towards the blinking lights of the village. Outside the bookshop, they stop, and he looks at her, a shadow veiled in gloom. "Bye, then," he says.

"Bye." Her voice is thick with something he can't name. "I guess I'll see you at Christmas. Write to me."

Quickly, he bends down, kisses her cheek. "Of course." And then he turns, and strides away, wishing he'd been braver.

* * *

**A/N **Yes, I know this isn't Crimson Field, if any of you are reading it. I have loads of Crimson Field things begging to be posted, and they will be soon, I promise. I have a little bit of an obsession with Cedric Diggory, and not because he's played by Robert Patterson in the film. I just feel he's incredibly underdeveloped as a character, and though J. was like 'here, have a nice character with loads of potential - now die.' So, I hope this kind of develops him, a bit. Perhaps. I'd really like to hear what you think. N xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

_3__rd__ of September 1994_

_Dear Isolde,_

_I got to school alright. It was a long train journey, but I saw my friends, which was good. We have a Feast, to mark the start of term, and it was amazing. I always miss school food when I'm on holiday. _

_How was your first day back at school?_

_I finished that book I bought from you yesterday evening. It's good – not as much of a triumphant ending as some of the others I've read, but I enjoyed the idea of two groups of children camping out on the island and looking out for themselves. It's something that I probably would have found great fun when I was younger._

_Any more recommendations?_

_I hope you're well, and I look forward to hearing from you soon._

_Cedric._

* * *

_19__th__ September 1994_

_Dear Cedric,_

_I'm well, thank you. My first day back at school seems like such a long time ago, but I suppose it takes a while for the post to get here from Scotland. Yes, it was good. The classes are much smaller, the teachers much friendlier. I have a pile of work to do for Art, and loads of essays for English Literature, but I'm enjoying myself._

_I've made a couple of new friends – Linsey and Rhiannon – who are both in my Psychology class. You're lucky that your food is nice – ours is slop, so I bring things in from home. _

_Swallows and Amazons was one of my favourite books as a child, and I will admit that when I was in primary school, I camped out several nights by the river, pretending to be like them. It was very cold and building the campfire was a challenge that I'll never forget! I don't think I'm cut out for that kind of thing._

_I'm sending you a copy of Pride and Prejudice – it's really a girl's book, but it's a staple classic that I think you should have a go at. It costs £2.00 – send it with your next letter. I hope all of your classes are going well – have you presented your chosen book for your project, yet?_

_Looking forward to your next letter._

_Isolde._

* * *

"And our next presentation – Mr Diggory," Professor Burbage calls from her seat behind the desk, her hair spiralling out in curls from beneath her witch's hat. "Which book did you read over the summer, Mr Diggory?"

He stands up and weaves his way to the front, plastering on a smile for the class. "I read Birdsong, Professor."

"I haven't heard of that one – will you give us all a brief synopsis?"

"It's about a man called Stephen Wraysford, who goes to France at the beginning of this century – it follows episodes from his life, from falling in love with his patron's wife, to fighting in the First World War, which devastated the Muggle World from 1914 to 1918."

"Yes, we'll be learning about that sometime at the end of January. Did you enjoy the book?"

"Very much so, Professor. It's a fascinating study of the human soul in the depth of absolute terror, and I would strongly recommend it to the rest of the class."

"Thank you very much, Mr Diggory. Next?"

He sits down next to his friends again, putting the precious volume safely in his bag as one of his other classmates gets up and begins to witter about a light, silly book that they borrowed from a friend.

* * *

_31__st__ October 1994_

_Dear Isolde, _

_Everything has been happening at Hogwarts recently. How do I explain it to you?_

_Okay, so basically, every five years, there used to be a competition between us, and two other schools in the same league that we are. We get together, and a champion is selected to represent each school. There are three tasks, and each champion competes in them to win points, and eventually, the whole tournament. It was very outdated, so they scrapped it a while back, but this year, the boards of our schools have decided to bring it back and well, I've been chosen as the champion for Hogwarts._

_I'm still in shock, to be honest. I never thought it would be me. It's such an honour to have been chosen, and I can't quite believe it, although, through some error, there's another champion for Hogwarts too. His name's Harry Potter, and he's fourteen – people don't know why on earth he's been chosen, and there's been a lot of outrage, but he's a decent kid and I don't mind sharing the champion-ship with him. _

_One school comes all the way from Norway, and the other from France – their champions are nice enough. The first task is in mid-November – I have no idea what it's to be yet, but I'm sure I'll find out soon enough._

_Pride and Prejudice was a hard book to get through – it took me ages, which is why I haven't written recently. The style is so difficult to read, considering that it's such a short book – though I quite liked the fact that Elizabeth got over her aversion to Darcy, though why he opted for arrogance in the first place is beyond me. Wickham, however, I have no sympathy for. He's a complete and utter rogue and it's disgraceful that he goes off with such young girls, though Lydia was so annoying I almost felt it was her comeuppance!_

_Write to me soon_

_Cedric._

* * *

_5__th__ November 1994_

_Dear Cedric,_

_That's wonderful news! I'm very proud of you for getting 'champion.' It sounds like an exciting event, and I hope your first task goes well for you. I'm lying on the grass in my back garden, watching the fireworks that my Mum is setting off down the other end. They're so pretty, all red and green and white. We also have a bonfire._

_I don't suppose you know the story of Guy Fawkes? Since you'd never heard of the First World War, then I'm assuming not. He tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London on this day, many hundreds of years ago, and well, got caught. We remember him by burning his effigy every year in the fire – I often feel a bit sorry for the guy, but the Houses of Parliament are so beautiful I wonder why anyone would want to willingly destroy them._

_Speaking of the First World War, Remembrance Day is approaching – remember that? I told you about it when we sat and talked about the war – we have a two minute silence at eleven o'clock to mark the end of the war. I've enclosed a paper poppy from the village shop for you, if you want it. _

_Pride and Prejudice is the crown jewel of 19__th__ century English literature, and yes, it is a bit dense, especially if you're not used to it. I completely agree with you on the subject of Wickham, though to be honest, I don't particularly like Elizabeth. She jumps to conclusions too quickly, though I suppose she was a product of her upbringing and her period. Aren't we all?_

_Thinking of you._

_Isolde._

* * *

_12__th__ November 1994_

_Dear Isolde,_

_I wore the poppy yesterday on my school uniform – my friends were utterly confused by it (yes, they too know nothing about the First World War – I can picture your incredulous expression right now) until I explained, and Professor Burbage thought it was a wonderful idea to uphold the two minute silence in class._

_That's a fascinating story about Guy Fawkes. He really tried to blow them up? All these things I don't know – it's utterly ridiculous, isn't it? _

_Well, in answer to your question, I think that to an extent, we're a product of our upbringing and the way our parents raise us, but I also think that people do have the strength to break away from that and be their own people – it's the thing that you either follow in your parents' footsteps or take a completely opposite path to the ones they took. Nature versus Nurture and all that. _

_I'm sorry this is so short, the bell is ringing, and I have an essay to write._

_I'll write again after the first task._

_Cedric._

* * *

_23__rd__ November 1994_

_Dear Cedric,_

_I'm pleased you made good use of the poppy, and yes it ridiculous, the things you don't know. What kind of nonsense are they filling your head with at school? It's supposed to be an elite boarding school and yet you know nothing about history at all! _

_Nature versus Nurture is an interesting debate, and I'm sending you a copy of a play by Shakespeare, which you need to read when you have time. Three different ones, actually, to keep you going. The Tempest is the one about Nature and Nurture – when you read it, think about the characters of Sebastian and Caliban, and tell me your opinions. _

_The second is Romeo and Juliet, which is a complete and utter classic – it's, without a doubt, Shakespeare's most famous play – and it has such beautiful quotes in it. I really want to know what you think of it, as it's one of my favourites._

_The final one is Hamlet, which again, is a tragedy, but more about revenge and madness than about love. For these, you owe Avalon Books seven pounds – please send it with your next letter._

_Good luck for the first task._

_Isolde._

* * *

_29__th__ November 1994_

_Dear Isolde,_

_Well, the first task was interesting to say the least. We champions would have been completely blind, but somehow, Harry found out what it was and told me, for which I am very grateful. I have to think of a way to repay him. We had to retrieve a box shaped like a golden egg through several obstacles which were, in actuality, pretty dangerous. I got a burn to my cheek, but nothing worse. Now, apparently, the golden egg holds the clue to the next task – in February – but it is so cryptic that no-one has any idea what it is telling us._

_Thank you for the books – I've enclosed the money for you. I'm reading Romeo and Juliet at the moment, and the others are sitting on my bedside table amongst piles of work. Again, the words are very dense and strange, though I'm getting the hang of it as I go towards the end. They do talk about nothing in particular a lot – and it's quite unbelievable that Romeo is so obsessed with Rosaline at the beginning of the play, then suddenly falls for Juliet. It makes no sense. _

_They do not fill my head with nonsense at school – we simply do different things to you! _

_Write soon._

_Cedric._

* * *

_14__th__ of December 1994_

_Dear Cedric,_

_So are you saying you don't believe in love at first sight? I'm afraid Shakespeare plays are rather like that – it happens very often. I'm not sure what I believe about it – I believe you can fall for someone very quickly, but then only when you get to know them does it truly become love. All that talk about the difference between love and lust, I suppose. I just like Romeo and Juliet because it's got the loveliest quotable bits, lots to analyse and look at, and it's great to act out. I especially like the sword-fighting bits, and since there were only a couple of boys in my English class when I studied it, I always got to be Mercutio, who has to be my favourite character. He's just so lively, and fun, and it's always so sad when he dies. _

_(I am assuming you've finished it by now – if not, I've given you a huge spoiler. Sorry.)_

_Evidently you do different things. How on earth does your school prepare you for life when you leave it? _

_As for the first task – well done – but I didn't realise it would be so physical! I thought you were referring to a more mental intelligence kind of thing, but no – I hope that your burn has healed. What kind of clue is it? I might be able to help – but then again..._

_When do you come home for Christmas? I've started to think about your present already, books, I'm afraid. Always books, but if you want something else, I can see what I can do._

_Write soon._

_Isolde._

* * *

_20__th__ December 1994_

_Dear Isolde,_

_I'm really sorry to say this, but I'm not coming home this Christmas. There's a ball, as part of the tournament, and as a champion, I'm expected to be there – with a partner. I'm sorry, I really am. _

_I finished Romeo and Juliet – I admit, I did not see that ending coming – and the Tempest. Hamlet is next on my list. Back to the Nature/ Nurture debate – it's interesting, isn't it? I always thought that Nurture would win out, but Sebastian just seems to be evil by Nature, doesn't he? Caliban, though, he's an interesting study. There are so many different factors contributing to his character, but I think from that speech – you know 'Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises' readers can surmise that he's not a monster really, but circumstances have made him so._

_My school prepares me perfectly for life. I learn loads of things that come in useful. Just not history. Yes, books are fine as a present, thank you – I've enclosed yours here, and no, you are not to open it before Christmas Day. I hope you like it. _

_The clue is a song. Something about water, and being underneath it. I don't know. I'll work it out somehow._

_I'm sorry. I hope you have a good Christmas._

_Cedric._

* * *

_25__th__ December 1994_

_Dear Cedric,_

_It's alright. I'll live. I hope you have a good time at your ball. Who did you ask?_

_Thank you very much for your present. Those sweets are hysterical – I tried them out on Linsey, which was interesting, since she got one that apparently tasted like vomit – and the quill pen is fantastic. I feel just like someone in the Middle Ages with my quill, ink and parchment! (That's a compliment, by the way.)_

_Now can you see why I like Romeo and Juliet so much? And yes, Caliban is a very interesting character, and I do love that speech that you quoted. The part where Prospero turns on him because he tries to rape Miranda is interesting, because, as an animal, he wouldn't know the difference particularly, but then honour was such an important thing in those days._

_I have mock exams soon for my AS-Levels, and I've been handing in coursework all term. My final piece for this unit of art went on the last day – I was really proud of it. The theme is meetings, and I've done a mother and her child for this piece – a picture is enclosed. For my final exam – I think I've already figured out what I'm going to do, but I'll leave it until I can show you at Easter. You are coming home for Easter, aren't you?_

_I've enclosed your present, and I hope you enjoy it._

_Merry Christmas._

_Isolde._

* * *

A few days after the ball, Cho finds him sitting in the library, poring over Isolde's latest letter as if it is an ancient artefact that will crumble to dust if he is not gentle enough.

"Who's that from?" Cho asks, hopping up onto the table. Her shiny dark hair swings in her eyes, and he looks away for a second.

"My friend, Isolde."

"Isolde," Cho echoes. "I haven't heard of her before. Does she go to another school?"

Cedric raises his eyebrows. "She's a Muggle."

"A Muggle? Why are you writing to her?"

"Because," he says slowly, as though she is a young child who cannot understand, "she's my friend."

"But she doesn't know about magic?"

"No."

Cho looks at him in a sceptical narrowing of dark eyes. "Okay."

He puts the letter down, pulling a parcel from his bag. The brown paper is coarse against his skin, and his name is written on the front in Isolde's spidery handwriting. He unwraps it gently to find two books sitting there, picking them up gently. One is incredibly old, clothed in red with neat gold printing on the cracked spine and thin, delicate pages sticking out here and there.

"Andersen's Fairytales," Cho reads over his shoulder. "It's not in very good condition, is it?"

"It's old," Cedric says. "I like it."

"Of course." Cho's voice is almost scathing, and he glares at her.

"Isolde sends me Muggle books. There's nothing wrong about that."

A bright flush creeps onto Cho's cheeks, and she looks away. "What's the other one, then?"

"A book of letters from the soldiers of WW1," he murmurs, turning it over and over in his hands.

"What's World War One?"

"A Muggle war."

"My dad says that the Muggles are always at war," she says, boredly. "There's several going on right now, apparently. I'm going out to Hogsmeade. Would you like to come?"

Cedric shakes his head. "I need to reply to her."

"Okay, then. I'll see you at dinner."

She disappears in a swirl of robes, and he relaxes back against the seat. It's not that he doesn't like Cho, particularly, it's just she doesn't understand what Isolde is to him. What books are to him. He doesn't think she'll ever understand, and, in that moment, he finds himself longing for sharp blue eyes and a sarcastic tongue, for the jangle of her jewellery and the smell of the bookshop.

He pulls the piece of parchment closer, and begins to write.

* * *

_29__th__ December 1994_

_Dear Isolde,_

_Thank you very much for your present. I look forward to reading both books – especially the fairytales; I can't believe you managed to find such an old volume to give to me. I'm glad you liked your present. _

_The ball was good. There was lots of dancing, lots of music and a sit-down dinner. I took a girl in the year below – her name's Cho Chang, and she's nice, but she doesn't really understand about books. We've been out a bit together since, but it's not as serious as she likes to think it is. _

_Yes, I can see why you like Romeo and Juliet. It's got such a tragic ending that I can see why it appeals to teenage girls! But yes, I like Mercutio, and it is very sad when he dies – I think I was more upset over that than over the actual protagonists' deaths! I'm reading Hamlet at the moment – it's quite creepy, with the ghost, isn't it? And they all descend into madness pretty quickly._

_Your picture is really good – it looks so realistic, and I like the way the mother is completely fixated on her child like it's the only thing in the world. Yes, I am coming home for Easter, and I'm looking forward to seeing you._

_Cedric._


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Easter comes down on them like a sudden rainstorm of silver-grey, so quickly that he doesn't even have time to think about how Isolde's letters are sparser, shorter, few and far between. He assumes she's busy, revising for her exams and doing her art. The second task goes by, and he's on a par with Harry Potter now, both of them tying for first place, and he knows that if one of them wins, then the first victory in over two hundred years will go to Hogwarts.

It's something that he wants so badly, to bring honour on their school.

* * *

The second day of the Easter holidays, he walks over to the village, spring caressing his face and the wind tangling itself gently through his hair. The bookshop waits like it always does, sign creaking, door screeching, the books falling over each other from the shelves and stacks. There is no-one behind the counter, so he rings the little bell, waiting with pent up breath. Finally, for the first time in months that have stretched themselves out longer than centuries, he'll see her.

There is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and then she appears, older, somehow, thick eyeliner smudged around her eyes like a defence. She stops dead, stares at him.

"Oh, it's you."

"How are you?" he asks, stung by her greeting, and she shrugs.

"Alive, as you can see. Not sure about much else."

"Do you want to come for a walk?"

"I'm busy."

"Come on, Isolde. I haven't seen you in ages."

She looks at him, a burning look that pierces him like a sword, cuts away his breath in the way only she can. "Okay," she says, grudgingly. "Only to the field and back."

"Okay," he replies.

* * *

She is silent, all the way there, a mutinous silence that curdles the air around them. They finally reach the brook that chatters happily, he turns to face her. "What's wrong?" he asks, reaching out to touch her hand.

She jerks it away, sharply. "Nothing."

"Isolde."

She looks up at him from under her fringe, anger simmering behind the icy-blueness of her eyes. "How's your girlfriend?"

And in that moment, he knows. He looks away. "She's not my girlfriend."

"That's not the way it sounded in your letters."

"I broke up with her. A few weeks ago."

She steps closer. He can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. "I'm sorry."

"I know you're not."

They stand in the quiet for a time, a quiet that washes them clean like rain. "Why?" she asks, eventually.

He takes a breath of air that sears his lungs. She's so close, Isolde, with her thin wrists, her too-much make-up, her tattered old dungarees, her soul reaching out its hands into his chest and squeezing his heart until it feels like bursting.

"Because she wasn't you," he says, all in a rush.

She stares at him, incredulity flickering for a second, then the air melts away between them and she's in his arms, her smell of soap and skin and lavender making his head spin so wildly that he can barely think as he leans down to press his lips to hers.

The mellow light cascades around them as they kiss for long, endless seconds, her arms winding around his neck and her taste slipping under his tongue until he feels drunk on her, on her bitterness and sweetness, on the way her soft hair feels knotted in his fingers.

When they finally pull apart, it's as though nothing has ever come between them, as if nine months and a dark-haired Ravenclaw have dissolved into nothingness like dreams at the break of day.

"Come on," she says, winding her fingers through his. "I've got something to show you."

* * *

At the bookshop, she leads him up the back staircase behind the counter, the steps protesting loudly and the beams brushing his head, and into her room at the very top of the house. It's small, with piles of books everywhere, painted cream and yellow, with blue checked curtains.

"Here," she says, putting a notebook into his hands and sitting down beside him on the bed. "I didn't tell you about it, before, but…"

He opens the front cover, slowly. _Castles Falling _it reads.

"What is it?"

She turns her head towards him, the sunlight picking out the gold in her chestnut hair. "It's a book that I'm writing. It started off as an assignment for English Lit, but I got so stuck in that I couldn't stop."

"Wow," he says, flicking through the pages that are almost all covered in Isolde's distinctive handwriting, notes scribbled in margins, lines upon lines of faded blue words rolling across the paper like waves at the seashore.

She turns it back to the second page. "Look."

_Verdun, January 1916._

"It's about the war?"

"Yes." She pauses. "I'd like you to read it. It isn't done, yet, but nevertheless…"

"I'd be honoured." He turns to her, kisses her. "Thank you."

* * *

Their holiday turns over too quickly in hours spent flopped in her garden, he with her psychology and history textbooks open on his chest idly testing her from them, and she making daisy chains that she hangs about her neck, or sitting in her bedroom with his head in her lap, reading her book as though it is something holy.

How is it that endings come too quickly?

Too soon, they are standing in the doorway the night before his train leaves, her arms wound around his waist like vines and her head on his chest. "I feel like I'm saying goodbye to a soldier off to the Front," she remarks suddenly.

"Why's that?"

"I don't know."

"I'll be back in June."

"I know. Keep safe for me, in the third task, won't you?"

"I promise." He kisses her, slowly, softly, feeling her touch weave around him like a magic spell. "Isolde…"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

She kisses him again, salty tears mixing on their lips and heat burning through their veins like a beautiful poison. When they break apart, he looks at her, small, pale-faced, a shadow in the silver light raining down from heaven.

"See you soon," he says.

"See you," she whispers.

* * *

June comes and goes, and still there is no sign of him. No word, no letters, no nothing. It claws into her, this absence of him from her life, makes her heart weep angry, bloody tears because he said that he'd come back.

Eventually, with August comes a letter, hastily stuffed into an envelope and addressed to her in an unfamiliar, blocky handwriting. She snatches it from her mother's hands and bolts down the hall into her room, slamming the door and tearing it open. There are two pieces of paper inside.

_Dear Miss Isolde Martin,_

_My name is Harry Potter. You don't know who I am, and I don't know you. How can I write this? I don't even know how much you know. _

_I go…went to the same school as Cedric Diggory, and his friends told me that you were his girlfriend. The second letter is something they found, and didn't know what to do with, and it's addressed to you, so I've enclosed it with this…_

_I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. There was an accident in the third task of the tournament the two of us were champions in, and he…he's dead. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. It was only chance that he was the one killed and not me, and I feel so incredibly guilty for it – I know I always will._

_I hope his letter to you is some solace, and I can tell you that when we took the cup together, right before the accident, his eyes lit up like he was thinking of someone – I guess that someone was you. _

_It was an honour to know him. He was such a good person, and I know I'll always remember him. _

_I'm sorry._

_H. Potter._

As she reads the letter, the air turns to metal, she can't breathe. Cedric? Dead? No, no, no, no, no, no…this has to be some horrible joke, he has to walk into the bookshop in the tinkling of the bell – how can he be dead? How can his school run a competition where people can _die? _

Oh God, no, no! She stares blankly at the letter. How can he be dead? How can it be that she will never see his easy smile, never feel his arms around her, his strength, his life ever again?

Slowly, ever so slowly, she begins to cry, then to sob, and before she knows it she's screaming into her pillow, and her mother is running up the stairs, pulling her into an embrace, and all Isolde can think about is that Cedric's gone, and dead, and no, how can this be happening?

* * *

Weeks later, when September is colouring in the leaves on the trees in shades of brown and gold and red, she finally picks up the second letter, the paper crinkling between her fingers and a heavy numbness in her chest where her heart used to be.

_24__th__ June 1995_

_Dear Isolde,_

_How are you?_

_It's the day of the third task here, and everyone is buzzing – you can literally feel it in the air. It's a maze, as I'm sure I've already told you, with the Cup at the centre – first person to get there wins, though I'm not sure what obstacles we'll be facing. It'll be good. Harry and I are in joint first position, and I know that everyone's hoping for a Hogwarts victory._

_How's your writing going, and all of your exams? Won't they have finished by now? I love your final piece for art – it's such a clever idea, taking harmony and discord – before the war and after. I can't wait to see it in real life, and I'm sure it will get you full marks._

_I'm enjoying 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' greatly – poor Quasimodo. It's not his fault that he was born the way he is. It does pose an interesting question about prejudice, though, doesn't it – and how peoples' minds always jump to conclusions before they have the full picture._

_My friends have just come into the dormitory – we're going to dinner now, and then I've got the last task. Wish me luck! _

_I'll see you very, very soon. I love you._

_Cedric._

Fresh sobs choke in her throat, and tears dribble down her cheeks like pearls as she reads the letter over and over, pain spiking between her ribs. He wrote this only hours before his death, so convinced that they would see each other again…oh Cedric…

She turns her face into the pillow. Make it stop. _Make it stop. _

* * *

Years later, when she's in her twenties and at university, still carrying the weight of her loss like a mantle across her shoulders, she approaches an agent with _Castles Falling_, hands over her precious book to their greedy eyes and eager fingers.

Eventually, when it is published, and her copy arrives in the post, she sits in the lounge of her student flat with it on her lap, wishing that he were here to see this moment, wishing that he were there to rip away the brown envelope with her, to turn the first page together, to discuss the cover and the blurb that someone has put together, and to laugh when they see it in a bookshop.

She's alone as she opens it up for the first time, as she knows she'll always be alone. Being a writer is a solitary life, but then, since he died, she hasn't wanted anyone else.

She leaves the book lying on the table, and when her flatmate comes in, picks it up to look, it falls open at the dedications page, thin black writing looping in a line.

_For Cedric, my soldier who never came home. _


End file.
